


Pins and Needles

by illink



Category: One Piece
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Mugiwara no Ichimi | Straw Hat Pirates, One Piece - Freeform, Original Character(s), Post-Time Skip, Roronoa Zoro - Freeform, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illink/pseuds/illink
Summary: Ever since word of the Straw Hat Pirates' regrouping resonated through the news and media, they found themselves being inexplicably harmed from out of thin air. As they set out to find Poppet, the famed Devil Fruit user supposedly behind their ailments, everything takes a turn for the worst... or so it seems.





	1. The Tailor Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! This story has been in the works for quite some time due to my incessant nit-picking and revising; it's still far from perfect, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless! :-) I've been meaning to post, and I did earlier in the year, but removed it to get ahead on chapters so there wouldn't be months of waiting between each. So now, here we are! I appreciate any support, (~but be nice as I'm still new to the community~) and read away!

Sciatic nerve.  
_Sahy-at-ik... nerve._

Carotid artery.  
_Ker-ah-did artery... check._

_Superas... no. Suprascapular nerve? Was that right? Supra—_

“Shit…”

Licking a thumb, Poppet firmly pressed down against the faulty, inscribed letter “a” resting against her skin. The ink’s carbon-black pigment smeared with a thin trace of saliva, glistening for a split second before spreading to form an unintelligible, blurred stain.

Fueled by unnerving lethargy, she swung her head back, allowing a gentle momentum carry her seat around in a leisurely circle; the exposed, industrially gridded ceiling followed, whirling, spiraling alongside her heightening apathy.

“Hey, Bub?”

The girl stretched her arms up above her head, slowly arching her back against the cold plastic of the front desk’s chair. Vertebrae popped one by one, and a rather satisfied moan echoed through the shop walls, only slightly displaced by the rainfall from outside.

She slouched.

“Oi… d’ya think we’ll get any clients today?”

An ear-splitting clap of thunder responded, but not the man in question. She scrunched her nose, halting the seat’s rotation with a flexed foot hooking onto the edge of the shop's front desk. Her head playfully lolled to the side.

“ _Listen_ , I know you’re upset and all, but you can’t stay mad at me forever—I’m your favorite, remember?” she chided, swinging her legs as they suspended from the seat. “You can’t blame me for trying to ease tensions with some small talk.”

The male, resoundingly enough, responded with more silence.

Days like this weren’t typical by any means; with both Bub and the tailor shop completely vacant, Poppet didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Truly, it’d been years since the seamstress had heard the sweet melodic nothingness of silence, and she would’ve been lying if she said it wasn’t strange.

Business boomed from the minute the storefront opened, prompting an excess of unfamiliar faces to appear; pressing against the window’s frigid glass, pounding at the already tattered front door, they came in waves—far too many for a room that could hold far too few. Pirates, sailors, and marines alike all flocked overseas to receive her services, but they rarely ever came for seamstress work; those “in-the-know” came with berries spilling from their outstretched, desperate palms, begging on their knees to take advantage of her unrivaled devil fruit power.

Circulating through word of mouth alone, the local South Den tailor shop aroused not only an assemblage of entitled, substandard clientele, but a notorious reputation as well. The storefront was rarely vacant, only closing in severe weather conditions—in this case, the long-awaited decennial storm brewing just along the island’s coast.

With a huff, Poppet pushed herself up to stand. Aged, water-damaged hardwood floors creaked under her weight as she made her way across the shop’s sparse extent. Her eyes, unclouded and astute, kept their focus on a single, particular spot at the junction of perpendicular walls.

Arriving within a foot of the corner, she took a seat on the ground, legs crossed over one another, her gaze meeting another set of eyes.

“It seems like you’re upset that I’ll be leaving.” She propped her head up against her palm, roseate lips coiling into an auspicious smile. “Your concern is admirable, but I don’t appreciate your deep-rooted opposition in my personal matters—never have.”

The air’s pervasive stillness didn’t once waver, but neither did Poppet.

“I’m all grown up, after all. It’s time I take my leave after, what, ten years here? …Eleven?” she chuckled, pushing a wispy strand of stark white hair away from her cheek. “I think I deserve to see the outside world beyond whatever garbage-fire humans crawl into this shop.”

With a free hand, the girl reached out towards Bub—her overseer and manager, amongst all things. Her viridescent eyes carefully traced over his form, taking note of the features that were burned into her subconscious; sparse, thin wisps of greyish-brown hair curled at the crown of his splotchy head, accompanied by dilated eyes and a signature, crooked nose twisted to match. He was characteristically known for his heavy-set frame and stout chin, most often covered in wasabi rice cracker crumbs. They were his favorite.

A pout formed along Poppet’s lips, and her hand lingered midair for a moment longer. She’d never quite noticed how age had hung from Bub’s face before.

“…You’re no fun.”

Poppet could vividly envision his usual, casual grimace, the sound of his lips smacking together before disappearing behind a generous gulp of food… a sandwich of sorts. She could hear his heavy breathing and sniffling nose, his exasperated grunts and wheezes. She replayed Bub’s typical responses until she could’ve sworn she heard—

_“Poppy…”_

The girl jolted, fingers trembling. Her posture stiffened and a ripple of goosebumps prickled upwards from her pale skin like a wave. Her expression, however, quickly fell upon noticing her companion’s mouth still set in a hard line. She exhaled and promptly quirked the corners of her lips upward with a giggle.

“I knew you’d try to speak up,” Poppet mused, “…You could never let me leave without having the final word, right?”

Another passing crack of thunder responded. Readjusting, Poppet flattened her palm down against her tattered, otherwise blank apron, smoothing it down along with her wavering composure. Her chest slowly rose with what was supposed to be a simple inhale, but her eyes instead began to water, a nauseous heave pushing against the back of her throat.

She choked it down like gravel, gagging, tear ducts welling.

It was a clinging stench—a hand bracing, putrid sweetness interlaced with that of rot and oxidized iron. Her teeth grazed her lower lip. How much time had passed? She couldn’t afford to idle any longer. Not like this.

“S-see? Even now, you still manage to get to me,” she gritted, pushing forth a strained laugh. “…But I know you would never stay mad at me—you couldn’t.”

Her eyes didn’t once shift to look at the hardwood floors, tinted a deep sanguine-turned-rust hue; nor did they trace across the man’s unblinking gaze, his hollowed cheekbones—the grossly azure, almost transparent, laminated quality of his skin.

She paid no mind.

Instead, the girl shifted closer and, with a forefinger and thumb, brushed Bub’s eyelids shut.

“…I’m your _favorite_ , remember?”


	2. Aldenia

“So… now what?”

“The hell do you think? We wait out the storm. There’s nothing else to do.”

“… _Nothing?_ We can’t even get food?”

A quick spark flickered from the room’s far corner, soon followed by a long drag of air. Amidst the momentary silence came a quick **SLAP!** followed by groaning, and finally, an exhale of cool, menthol smoke.

“Luffy, this is the worst storm I’ve ever seen—there’s no way around it. Settling the ship along this cove is the best we can do for now.” A redhead kicked her heels up along the length of a couch, pushing away a strand of hair from her face. “I _tried_ to warn you about coming here, didn’t I?”

The raven-haired boy watched plumes of smoke trail upwards from the blonde’s cigarette before cocking his head to the side. “…Mhh…I don’t remember.”

“YOU IDIOT, OF COURSE I DID!”

“Oi, pipe down…” a low voice groaned from the floor. “Yelling isn’t gonna make this thing go away any sooner, so we might as well get comfortable.”

Ashes pressed underneath the sole of the blonde’s shoe, fizzling out unlike his newborn rage. “You think you can talk to _my_ precious Nami-swan like that!? I have half a mind to launch you out into this damn storm myself, y’damned marimo.”

“The whole ‘ _pipe down’_ thing?” The green-haired swordsman slowly peeled an eye open before furrowing his brows at the blonde. “…Goes for you too, shitty cook.”

“Why you…”

“ANYWAYS,” a long-nosed figure spread his arms, “The point is we’re stranded, right? It’s been nearly two days since we anchored with no signs of the storm letting up. Our food’s low, our ships immovable, and cabin fever is slowly setting in~”

A small reindeer’s mouth fell wide open. “CABIN FEVER?”

“Oh no.” Nami droned.

“ _OH, YEAH_ ,” the male eerily responded, dipping his voice. “Soon enough we’ll all go feral, with nothing left but the skin and meat on our bones—”

A skeleton’s mouth eagerly unhinged.

“—Except for Brook who has no skin." 

“AGH! MY LINE!”

“HUUUH?!” Chopper pushed past Brook’s steadily crumbling disposition. “Wh-what are we gonna do?”

“Oh, I guess we’ll have to _EAT_ one another to stay alive…” Usopp nodded, finger set beneath his chin. “It’ll be the ooonly waaay to survive and—DIBS ON EATING ZORO!" 

“HUH?” Luffy’s chin slammed against the ground, “THERE’S FOOD?”

“If anyone’s eating me, it’ll be me,” Zoro straightened up.

Nami slunk further into the couch.

_This was nothing but typical._

The navigator’s eyes traced around the room’s long, curved perimeter of contained greens and blues, fishes and foliage. The Thousand Sunny’s aquarium bar was bustling, full of giddy laughter and threatening slurs blurred together with the low, melodic hum of the food supply tank. Its usually serene atmosphere had plunged into chaos as the whole crew dubbed it the day’s impromptu meeting ground, but despite this, a subconscious voice settled into Nami’s mind, louder than the rest.

_Something was off._

The ship rocked and rolled with waves crashing against the shoreline. The New World’s weather patterns had been nothing short of predatory, each arising environment tossing down its own personal hell unto the world—and this would be no exception. It took only a second for the air pressure to plummet, and only another second for the clouds to flatten and darken into anvils lumbering from above. No one could have seen it coming, nor could anyone have reacted in time.

But it was routine. The Sunny was anchored with plenty of slack, the sails were stowed, and the cargo was fastened; each crewmember slid and crawled down tangles of ropes, hands frantically but firmly reinforcing the ship’s already trustworthy build amidst trying to not slip overboard with each of the Sunny’s tumbling rolls. They somehow managed. Again.

…And here they were, stuck in limbo between sea and shore.

Luffy had since thrown himself against Franky and Brook, joining those deemed the “least edible” of the crew while the remaining options bickered and brawled. Robin giggled before catching a glimpse of the navigator’s solemn expression. She pressed her cheek against her palm.

“Something on your mind?”

Nami’s head rolled over to meet Robin’s gaze, soft and sincere.

“…Do you know anything about this island? Aldenia?”

“What in particular?”

“…Anything,” Nami stared back up at the ceiling.

Even without much context, Robin could quite clearly make out the concern ebbing within the navigator’s mind. From what Usopp had seen through his goggles, the island was described as abandoned, devoid of guards and any large, noticeable infrastructure for that matter. There were surely some inhabitants, but the air itself betrayed any lingering feelings of comfort.

“I know just as much as you, navigator-san.” Robin’s lips curled into a small half-grin. “It’s an island known only through word of mouth, largely undocumented and unexplored. It seems like the tailor shop we’re planning on heading towards is the only source of travelers’ interest.”

“And the girl? What was her name?”

“She’s addressed by the name of ‘Poppet’. If the rumors are true, I’m sure she’s the one responsible for causing the crew’s unexplainable ailments. She supposedly can harm anyone around the world just by glancing at an image of them—wanted poster or otherwise. It’s quite the power.”

Calmly, Nami returned her gaze to the rest of the crew.

They were, as per usual, an utter mess. Zoro and Sanji were dancing on the brink of death, unceremoniously brawling as the remaining members chanted nonsense; they circled around the two, engrossed in what seemed to be a decisive show of life or death— friend or fodder.

Nami tilted her chin up. “Sanji-kun?”

The blonde’s body immediately rolled and molded into jelly, his arms dropping to set right at heart-level. “YES, NAMI-SW—”

 **CLUNK**.

Zoro stepped back, sheathing his sword. Pride etched across his smug face. “You lose.”

The cook’s body coiled into itself like a snake, a hand immediately reaching up for the crown of his head. “THAT DOESN’T COUNT YOU SHITHEAD!”

“Sanji-kun, could you ask the others whose idea it was to come to this island?” The redhead’s voice cut through his anger like butter—softly, sweetly—to which Sanji promptly batted his eyelashes.

“Of course, my dear _angel_!” He cooed, twisting to face the others. “OI! Who the hell chose this damned island?”

“ME!”

The pointed edge of a high-heel flew across the room, immediately sinking into the captain’s toothy, cheek-to-cheek grin. His head stretched back, causing his body to extend and pull along with it straight into the wall with a crash. Nami didn’t need confirmation that the voice came from Luffy.

Chopper let out a shrill screech. “CABIN FEVER!”

“Listen,” she nearly hissed. “…Don’t any of you dare forget about the reason we came to this island in the first place. This Poppet girl has supposedly been messing around with us ever since news came out of our regrouping and not even Chopper can make out why we’re all getting injured left and right. Would it _hurt_ to take this more seriously?”

Luffy snapped back upright, readjusting his straw hat.

“We don’t even know if this chick exists though!” Franky spoke up. “For all we know, we could be following empty words right into a trap. I mean, there’s no way someone could hurt us without even being nearby!"

“Y-yeah!” Usopp chimed in. “After all, we’re just following the words of some old geezer from the last island—he must’ve been senile to dream up a puppet-sort-of-girl.”

“Trap or not, she’s the only lead we have.” Zoro huffed. “It’s safer to assume she’s responsible than not.”

“So act like it!” Nami crossed her arms, slouching. “Are we really just going to parade up into this seemingly desolate, probably trap-ridden island searching for a name with no face? Is that really our game-plan?”

Confident, mutual nods resounded from the crew.

“NO!” Her eyes shot over to Luffy. “STOP TR—”

**CRR~! CRAAACK! CRAAACK!**

Bodies froze. 

The crew’s eyes drifted amongst one another, not a single breath exhaled between. The sound was all too familiar—the sputtering hiss of standard marine rifles, only somewhat muffled from the rain outside. Each crewmate knew of the gun in distinct, traumatic ways, presented only as a momentary pause. They knew of the implications. 

Nami was the first to shudder.

_There was company on the island._

_________________________________________

_Rain. Rain. More rain_.

Saltwater swept across bare feet trudging through waves of murk and grime; the storm had picked up. Oh boy, did it pick up. It was incessant, drumming against weather-beaten rooftops, the wind only slightly displacing its song with tumultuous howls and whistles.

Like pinpricks, the water sprayed against Poppet’s face, very poorly shielded by the back of her wrist. It stung her skin and dripped from her eyelashes, trickling down her neck to further saturate her already sopping clothes. 

Her eyes scanned through the dismal town landscape. Numb fingers caught onto the side of a building, and she hastily pressed her back against the brick-plastered exterior, ducking under a slightly protruding roof.

“God… fucking damn it…” she bit, catching her breath if only for a brief moment. The distant echo of metal-toed boots and holstered rifles clattered through the streets, disappearing and reappearing closer with each turbulent gust of wind. She couldn’t afford to rest.

_Go, go, go._

With a stark exhale, her muscles contracted, pushing forward to a low-bodied sprint. The girl’s breaths came in short gasps, her strides becoming heavier and more fatigued with each padded footstep; the weight of pooling water dragged her movements in muddied sloshes and slurs. Poppet was losing traction—fast.

“OI! OVER THERE!”

Many overlapping, clamorous voices drew near, as did the girl’s footfall. Skidding past corners upon corners, and alleys upon alleys, she ran. Her toes had gone cyanic from the constant heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe of running, but she ran forward nonetheless and—

**_CRAAACK~! CRRR—CRAAACK!_ **

Open fire. Bullets, whizzing only inches from Poppet’s body, whistled through the air alongside scattered claps of thunder. In an instant, she pivoted, shifting to press tightly between two intersecting buildings. Her face was flushed of color, eyes dilated in the town’s looming darkness.

Something stung.

Shadows of figures flashed past her in union, their yells only evident for a fraction of a second. Her body had frozen in place, if not only from the nearly freezing temperatures; a finger pressed against the source of pain before lifting to the girl’s mouth. She tasted of copper.

“KEEP LOOKING! KEEP LOOKING!” she heard—distant, but not safely so.

_...Not like any part of this was safe to begin with._

Poppet’s toes peeled from the cobblestone pavement, pointing, and then laying flat with each silent creep backwards. It was almost as if she had forgotten about the rain’s rooftop pattering and the crackling of tree branches. It was almost as if she could breath for a moment longer.

_Keep going, keep going._

No longer hearing the voices, she pivoted, peering over the wall pressing against her to check for clearance. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, but she bit her cheek down. This was no time for celebration. Not yet. She propped up her heel and wrapped a palm around the wall enclosing her; between one breath and the next, she pressed her weight forward to run once again. She just had to escape.

One footstep. Two. Three, four, five—she ran. She could taste the freedom. Oh god, she could taste the sugary sweetness of freedom pressing against her tongue. It was so close, it was almost as if—

**_CRAAACK!_ **

The ground spun. Recognition couldn’t yet reach her brain. She stumbled, fingers barely touching the floor, her chest heaving low. It couldn’t have been a gunshot. Blood washed away in the rainwater beneath her hanging head, and the back of her palm instinctually shot up to her eye. A brief moment of silence rung in Poppet’s ears yet again, and she could feel the air draw back from her face like a vacuum.

A punch was coming. Another.

Her body pressed against the floor as her leg swept out at a foggy pair of metal-toes boots. A body slammed to the ground like a block of lumber and Poppet rose to face the attacking marine. The man quickly rolled to his back, scrambling to ready his rifle. Their eyes connected and his jaw hung slack.

“…You’re not very bright, are you?” Poppet’s smile finally shone through a grimace, her eyes an opaque, inky black cast. Blood trickled from her cheek.

“…You should’ve just let me go, loverboy.”


	3. The Aftermath

Nearly three days had passed since the storm’s last dwindling gust of wind; likewise, nearly three days had passed since the last locally recorded sighting of Poppet. The small coastline town of South Den was in ruins, crumbled like cottage cheese in the wake of the decade’s most feared natural disaster. Piles of uprooted cobblestone and brick decorated the few remaining loosely identifiable homes still standing. Streams of muddied debris and refuse flooded the ground’s pores.

The damage was expected. It always had been.

Despite being cradled by the world government, South Den never once received aid or assistance in times of need. Instead, the town was simply left to writhe in its misfortunes. That fate was decided ten years ago with the opening of a storefront masquerading as a tailor shop. The town became a pit stop—nothing else. It became a shell of itself. 

“…Justice, my fucking ass.”

A trembling hand scooped into a pool of murky, sepia liquid. The contents dribbled through loose fingers before disappearing with a shallow slurp closely followed by disgusted, puckered lips and a coughing fit too loud for comfort. The surrounding forest's leaves rustled a silent fit of laughter.

 _Alcohol_. Poppet’s expression instinctually pinched in disgust.

 _Perfect_.

The girl’s crouched position gradually folded into an uncomfortable sprawl, her body straining against the unwarranted movement. The hem of her black shirt lifted to fit between the crooks of her teeth and underneath laid a deep laceration on her waist—grossly exposed flesh and fat. _God, it looked vile._

Her palm hesitantly submerged back into the shallow pool of muddied alcohol, careful to not stir the surrounding mud. She exhaled.

Whiskey met the wound.

A sharp hiss of pain seethed through clenched teeth, and Poppet could’ve sworn she saw white. Her fist hit the soil, splashing against the remaining puddled liquor as she silently cursed at herself. The words fell short against her lips. It was for the best.

Word of her disappearance quickly filtered through hushed whispers and the crooning necks of town locals. Wanted posters were sloppily pasted against the dampened bark of surrounding trees, painted with scattered bits of ink dribbling along her photocopied face. The sight was humorous, if anything. Admittedly, Poppet didn’t have the slightest idea of her own whereabouts, but she was sure of one thing—wherever the hell she was wasn’t the shop… and that was all that mattered. 

…Well, that and making sure she didn’t die from an infected wound gone awry.

Poppet’s side ached and burned, convulsing in beats that closely followed those within her chest. She spat a final hack of spit over her shoulder before rocking back to a seated position, carefully patting down the torn cotton of her shirt. She’d been too careless in thinking she could outrun open fire with no repercussions, no consequence. But things could’ve gone far more awry.

With the storm gone, moments of idleness began to settle back into the air around her; blades of dewed grass clung to one another, and the sweet earthy smell of rainwater bubbled atop flooded soil. Poppet huffed out a tired breath, glancing down to meet the small rump of a beetle staggering by. 

“…You’ve got places to be too, don’t you?” she trailed a finger alongside the bug. “Stubborn little guy, surviving a storm like that.”

The beetle struggled around a patch of dirtied water as she withdrew her finger. “Mmhm.”

Light wind whistled through the dense arms of trees looming from above and all around. 

“What’s that, buddy?” Poppet grinned a bit too wide, lifting herself off of the ground like a dead weight. “You hear someone coming?”

There— the distant crunching of leaves, boots patting across soft soil.

Poppet twisted on her heel, digging it firmly into the dampened sod beneath her. In a single fluid motion, she pressed the palms of her hands together, pulling them apart to materialize a large, adorned needle from the space between. She stabbed it into the soil beside her.

“It’s a shame I’m too tuckered out for games right now.” Poppet lifted her head in stride, quickly raising her voice. “Out there. You. You’re either lost, or stupid, or both—and I sure as hell don’t care to figure out the combination or lack thereof. Leave.”

The crunching slowed for a moment and the slim shadowed outline of a figure had become visible from just behind a few trees. Their head cocked and a palm lifted up to rest against some sort of weapon nestled against their hip.

And then came another step forward.

Poppet bit the inside of her cheek, quickly opting to form the conclusion that this person was, in fact, stupid. She smirked to herself, and in the span of a single blink, her once pale green eyes had been completely consumed into voids of black, glossy and devoid of all color.

“Good, good. Another step forward and you become a threat.”

There was a slight pause, perhaps a change of mind or weighing of options. It was a clear moment of hesitation; the figure probably recognized her, opting to spare themselves the trouble of crossing paths with the town’s sought after devil fruit user. 

The figure shifted their weight to their heels, shoulders dropping and—

They yawned. 

_They fucking yawned._

And god, was it the biggest yawn Poppet had ever seen in her life. Baritone, aching from deep inside their chest, exhaled through a practically unhinged jaw. They smacked their lips together and—

_They took a step forward._

The motion was innate. Poppet plucked her oversized needle out from the ground, sinking its length through her own ankle without hesitation. Just as it entered her skin, the figure before her lurched forward, palms wrapping around their own.

“FUCKIN’—what the hell?!” A sharp hiss of pain sounded from the male, quickly followed by a low string of curses.

Poppet grimaced only for a moment before slowly making her way closer, gaze unwavering.

The male sensed her and he quickly jumped back with a limp, his fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt of a katana. Poppet could clearly make out his features after closing the distance, the most prominent being his light green hair and toned, tanned skin. She noticed a scar running through his left eye.

“…You have a partially torn lateral ligament in your right ankle; it’s a moderate strain causing looseness in the joint, swelling, and some general instability,” Poppet shrugged, leaning her weight. “Mind telling me why you’re here?”

The green-haired swordsman eyed her suspiciously, his eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t ask for a diagnosis.”

“Thought your stupid little mind needed it—you got problems hearing, then?” Poppet quirked her lip upwards. “You heard me didn’t you?”

“Tch—you expect me to believe _you_ did this to me?”

“Answer me, first.”

Fully standing, Zoro’s gaze fixated onto the girl in front of him. Quite frankly, she looked awful; not-so-white hair clung to her face in drenched, humid-soaked strands and dried blood speckled the height of her cheekbone beside a skid-marked gash. His eyes lingered and—his throat went dry. Her eyes were completely indistinct, undefined, and _pitch-fuckin’-black_.

She was completely expressionless, aside from a playful smile that stretched across her roseate cheeks. A loosely fitting, oversized t-shirt draped over slightly protruding collarbones and beside her was a large sewing needle embedded into the soil. Her left hand rested loosely on top of it, its entirety enveloped in a deep, purple-blue hue. Few fingers overlapped one another, no doubt broken.

“The rest of my crew wandered off,” Zoro replied, just barely refocusing his attention. “I’m sure they’re all lost somewhere, the _dumbasses_.”

“You mean to tell me an entire crew got lost?”

“You wanted your question answered—that’s it,” he sneered. “The hell are you here for?”

Poppet’s eyes dimmed for a beat.

"I wandered off,” she smiled a little too wide. “…Like a _dumbass_.”

Silence quickly engulfed the two as they sized each other up. Aldenia’s reddened sun dipped below the horizon line and translucent shadows of forested trees stretched into thin monochromatic bands; they washed over bare toes and black boots, extending until the evening's last few beams of light no longer freckled through treetop brush. A cool breeze ran its silken fingers along Poppet’s skin and her lips curled in contentment.

The male crossed his arms, brows weaving together. Something was horribly off with the girl before him. She looked like she'd been double-dipped in the goddamn netherworld with those abyssal eyes and that daunting ass smile. And then there was that conspicuously pristine weapon of hers—some sort of ornamented, silver needle reaching just below waist level. A thin trickle of crimson rolled down its length from the girl's palm, but otherwise, it was completely devoid of debris.

Silently, the swordsman pressed against his supposedly strained ankle, not realizing the pained huff of air leaving his lips. His gaze shot back up to Poppet.

"You want something," the swordsman eyed the girl, his fingers drumming against a white katana sheath.

She shrugged. "Presuming with no intention of providing seems rather useless, don’t you think?”

“It’s not a presumption.”

“ _Oh_?” Poppet’s eyes grew comically wide for a moment. “Excuse my surprise, would’ya? Didn’t expect you to understand such a complicated string of words with that lovely head of yours.”

A gust of wind rattled blankets of muddied leaves overtaking the forest floor and a distant, almost inaudible pattering of footsteps emerged from in between. Zoro quickly clamped his mouth shut as occasional yells and shouts echoed from what Poppet only assumed to be the voices of marines. This island was nothing but trouble, truly.

They had found her.

“We’ve got company, huh.” The girl staggered yet again as weight rested on her wounded, nearly purple hand. She was clearly in no shape to be standing, much less having any sort of casual conversation, but still, she flashed her new acquaintance a soft smirk.

“Shouldn't you get going… _Roronoa Zoro_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a long while since i've updated! i apologize and hope you enjoy this new chapter! :-)


	4. Escape

“…So you know me.”

Poppet’s eyes fluttered, and her body slunk down against the needle embedded into the soil. She huffed out a strained, shallow breath, crouching low to the ground. The muffled uproar drew closer, but the girl simply rested her cheek against her weapon’s cool surface; she looked eerily calm—comfortable, even.

“Know you?” She snickered, examining her needle’s fine filigree. “I know _of_ you—nothing more, nothing less. Don’t flatter yourself, now.”

Her tone was weightless and shrouded under a delicate drawl—that, or long overdue stress-induced delirium was catching up. With each syllable, her chest rose and fell in quick, unsteady rhythms.

_The stubborn little shit couldn’t even pretend to be fine anymore._

Upon seeing heads peek above the hill’s horizon, the girl slumped and fell back on her ass to a seated position. Her good wrist twisted the large needle out from the ground with a lazy tug and she mumbled a few choice curse words under her breath as if the situation were nothing more than a burden.

“THERE—THERE SHE IS!”

Zoro eyed her cautiously, a thumb pressed against the hilt of his katana. Was she really thinking of _fighting_ in her state? She could barely even hold her own weight, much less keep her eyes from flickering in and out of focus—it was a fucking death wish and she seemed to know it.

“READY YOUR RIFLES!”

“Mmmmmm…” Poppet squinted at the marines, laboring away at the task of merely keeping her eyelids open. Her steady hum waned, voice tender, up until she languidly twisted to face the moss head.

“ _Don’t. Move_.”

In an instant, the girl’s head shot back to the crowd, her sewing needle grossly imbedding itself into her left shoulder. Her grip tightened for a moment, and blackened eyes swept across the faces of each marine with a violent glare. Zoro’s body jolted at the sight and his mouth shot open—

Bodies dropped, one by one.

The marines folded in on themselves like poorly assembled gelatin, rifles falling to the floor before their writhing figures. Shrieks and wails echoed throughout the forest and amidst his shock, Zoro noticed each male had a hand firmly gripped around their shoulder… right where Poppet had skewered herself.

There was a beat of silence—delayed apprehension.

Shuddering breaths tore through the girl’s chest and she harshly pressed her own shoulder against the ground before rocking to arch her back. Despite the whole thing being a split-second spectacle, there was one thing the swordsman was sure of:

 _She was a devil fruit user._ A wanted one, at that.

A devil fruit user whose now green eyes had rolled back, lids flickering and fluttering through whatever hellish torment flooded her body. One whose disposition was crumbling. One who… had fallen completely unconscious.

 _Fuck_.

Zoro’s body acted before his mind did, quickly heaving Poppet’s body into his arms and over his broad shoulder. Then he ran. The girl slung across him felt feather-weight, her arms loosely dangling and swaying with each powerful stride forward. They had to make it to Chopper— to the Thousand Sunny— fast.

What Zoro didn’t anticipate, however, was the dull, throbbing ache that came with each step. That torn ligament-ankle-whatever was really starting to feel real, though he just couldn’t accept the thought. There was no way.

Clusters of thin trees blurred with motion, blending together with seamless ease. Each winding twist and turn was indistinguishable from the last, each shallow cliff-side and nearly vertical hill, the same. It was hell— a tangled labyrinth of greenery and weighted, slopping mud. The foliage was densely packed, damp and storm-weathered, leaving not only a cloudless, dim sky, but a camouflage of leaves scattered beneath as well.

The more he ran, the more his eye was drawn to the mass amounts of wanted posters wilting off the trees whizzing past. They all had some smear of the word “POPPET” on them, the only identifiers being blurred ink of what seemed to be white hair and green… eyes and— Zoro’s eye widened. There was that smirk of hers, murky and distorted, but still hers.

_She was Poppet._

“B-Bub…?”

Zoro’s teeth clenched and his body skid to a sudden halt. “HUH?”

He could feel tremulous breaths resume against his body from the girl. Not only that, but, despite facing opposite directions, he could vividly picture that smirk stretching across her face right then. It surely wasn’t there, though. She sounded different, scared, even. And that name… _Bub_? Bub. Where exactly did she think she was? And with _who_?

“When the hell did you come to?!”

Poppet lazily lifted her cheek from off the swordsman’s back, arms still limp. She hummed, deep emerald eyes glazed with reflexive wetness. “…When I threw up behind you.”

“Hell—“ Zoro ran his free palm down his face. “You’re a goddamn wreck, y’know that?”

“Put me down,” she strained.

“You’d be in my way.”

“And what am I when you carry me around like a lifeless sack? Not in your way?”

“Right— then you’re a lifeless sack.” Zoro hiked her up more comfortably against his shoulder. “Just shut up and let me handle this. You don’t even know what the ship looks like.”

The girl’s body went rigid, unmoving. And then she started laughing. Her abdomen contracted against Zoro’s shoulder with each breath, and just as he was about to speak up, a sharp elbow harshly jutted into the small of his back.

“Oi! The hell do you think you’re—”

“Doing?” She jabbed again, adding in a knee to the chest. “Leaving.”

And… she was back. Another punch. Weak, this time.

“Not… going…”

_Silence._

Zoro nearly breathed a sigh of relief had he not acknowledged that she fainted yet again. Probably from the blood rushing to her head, amongst all else.

In a single swift movement, he twisted her to lay flush against his exposed chest, his arms cradling her frail body. Wiry tangles of cold and wet white hair pressed snug against his exposed skin and, through a shudder, he pressed forward into another sprint.

It didn’t take long for the same cyclical, environmental spiraling to resume—tree after tree looking just like the last few thousands of trees before. Zoro was just about on the end of his last wit, up until a blurred figure soared through the sky, streamer-like arms flying with reckless abandon and a resounding **SNAP!**

Luffy. It was uncanny.

With another skid, Zoro decidedly made a beeline towards where the captain’s body had shot into the night sky like a blazing flare. He had flung himself _just_ above the crowns of trees up ahead, and that meant there were most likely others somewhere near him. All he had to do was follow that position and—

“Let go of me.”

Zoro clamped his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose. “You’re injured. Don’t distract me.”

Poppet had awoken yet again, but found herself in a less compromising position within a pair of arms. She could feel a long, raised scar brushing against her cheek, the thick fabric of an open coat warming her, just so.

“Are you taking me back?” Poppet rubbed her eyes, grimacing. Each syllable slurred.

Zoro’s breath caught in his throat. The girl weakly shoved at his chest, her form coiling smaller and smaller into itself. She was clearly trying to get punches in, but her body just couldn’t seem to execute a damn thing anymore.

“The tailor shop…” She nearly whispered. “Are you taking me back?”

“No.”

“Where are you taking me?” Her head slunk against his sweat-soaked skin, eyes fluttering, straining to stay open. “B-Bub… where are—what are they gonna do to me?”

“…I’m not taking you back,” he simply reaffirmed, voice lower.

He felt the girl’s body fight and fall limp all over again as a bruised cheek pressed just below his collarbone. Her breathing ceased. A pause of silence filled the air and Zoro shifted slightly left, adjusting his direction without a word.

The girl was a mess of sweat and blood and vomit. It was delirium. It was desperation. It was a downright refusal to succumb— an agonizing internal revolt. She was clearly fleeing from something and someone, the marines aside. More so, she was clearly not in the position to make right-minded decisions.

He wouldn’t put her down.

Even if she truly was the one behind the crew’s repeated inexplicable injuries, there was no way Zoro could just cast her aside, head heavy and lull, in a forest teeming with marines, likely bounty hunters, and whoever the hell else. Not in good conscience. This moment would be the single exception of aid. Chopper would know what to do.

The trees grew fewer, and a thin break of moonlight creeped towards the two with each running tread forward. Luffy or not, there was something out there other than a fucking forest.

As Zoro’s body slipped into the light, rocky cobblestone pressed at the heels and toes of his feet; he damn near tripped, skidding and lurching onto the new land, boots covered in fresh mud. Rows of destroyed shops and few lucky standing ones littered the path ahead—

As did a group of marines.

Dressed in their signature white and blue coats, they surveyed the town, looking past rubble and into remaining homes for leads on their devil fruit user’s whereabouts. And that’s when they saw— notorious Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro and the local, wanted Shadow Seamstress: Poppet, whizzing past in a haze.

Oh, hell broke loose.

The marines stumbled, barking commands left and right, their rifles firing off with imprudent aim. Zoro hastily readjusted Poppet within his grip, and her head fit snug into the crook of his neck. He grit his teeth, silently thanking the incoming nighttime for giving him _some_ cover.

Even with the clattering of holsters and heeled boots, Zoro could soon make out the sound of bodies falling and wailing with dull thuds. As he hopped over rubble and ruin, he briefly twisted his head back, only to see marines collapsing to the ground one after another, seemingly tripping on thin air.

“What the—”

 _Poppet_.

She had regained consciousness just long enough to scatter their pursuers to the ground; Zoro could feel her body blister with fever, muscles tightening and shuddering just as the marines’ did—she felt every bit of what she inflicted. There was no doubt.

Rounding a corner, Zoro quickly evaded the oncoming spur of uninjured marines, ducking to hide behind a moss covered, broken stack of crates. He propped Poppet onto his knee and quickly unraveled the bandana knotted around his bicep.

“You stubborn lil’ shit…”

The fabric sloppily wound around the girl’s eyes and was firmly tied off; she couldn’t keep using her devil fruit power—whatever the hell it was, though it undoubtedly had to do with those blackened eyes of hers.

It was clear that her self-sabotage was doing more harm than good, killing off whatever livable time she had left. Wounds were reopening left and right, and her nearly shattered hand had been awkwardly placed and swung with their pursuit’s momentum, leaving what could only be explained as a mess of joints. Zoro couldn’t help but grimace.

“SHISHISHI! OI! Sanji, Sanji, look!”

“THAT’S INEDIBLE YOU DIPSHIT!”

_Voices—Luffy and that insufferable love-cook._

Zoro scooped up the girl yet again, grappling to push past the dim alleyway’s littered crates and windswept trash. He hopped over to the street’s other side, just barely catching the smallest sliver of the swirly-brow’s blazer rounding the corner.

Through scattered pants and swears, Zoro pushed forward with full steam one last time. As his two crewmates came into view, so did a cluster of sputtering, wide-eyes marines— different ones from just moments earlier. Likely reinforcements.

Surely, the last thing they expected amidst Poppet’s outbreak was for the entirety of the Straw Hats to show face.

Weapons were drawn and shots fired off, quickly evaded and rebounded by the crew. Sanji’s legs rotated above his head, arms intricately pivoting to land kicks smack in the marines’ faces; Luffy, on the other hand, had sent bullets flying back towards the men, sending the remaining bunch flying, crashing down to the ground. 

Despite their efforts (although small), more clattering boots and yells echoed from what seemed to be a only few blocks away. The half collapsed town of South Den seemed to be teeming with marine forces.

Sanji dusted off his dress shirt, twisting around. “Way to go, you dumb marimo. You led a whole pack of government goons straight to—”

The blonde’s voice caught in his throat.

There, in the swordsman’s arms, laid a petite blindfolded girl, black and blue and completely motionless. Blood smeared across Zoro’s shoulder and chest in thin streaks, Poppet’s slack arm hanging loosely from her bundled form. It took only a brief glance for the cook to lay eyes on her injuries, the most prominent being her bloodied, raw hand.

“THE HELL DID YOU DO TO HER, YOU FUCKING BRUTE?!” Sanji lurched forward and Zoro reflexively shifted the girl away.

“You lay a hand on me, and she’ll get hurt too.” He eyed the cook, whose body had nearly ignited in flames, hair frazzled and wild. “I didn’t do a single thing to her so shut the hell up and find Chopper.”

“Who’s that? She doesn’t look too good.” Luffy tilted his head.

“Chopper’s back on the ship—give her to me.” Sanji extended out a palm. “Knowing you, you probably got lost and made this poor girl suffer for far longer than she should’ve had to. We can’t trust you to find the Sunny.”

Zoro’s face twisted in displeasure, but he knew the shit-cook had a point—not that he’d ever admit it or his ankle’s worsening condition.

“Whatever. But know I’m only handing her over because if she wakes up and kills one of us, I prefer it be you.”

“Why the hell would she—“

“Just take her. _Go_.”

And as soon as Poppet was exchanged and rested in the blonde’s hold, he took off for the island’s coastline. His steps tapped against the ground, up until they merely glazed over the cobblestone; he hovered and then flew, air-walking and bounding through the sky, straight towards the ship.

“Don’t you worry, my sweet angel! You’ll feel better in no time.”


End file.
